


you're the one that brings the sun

by jaekyu



Series: the boys of summer [3]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - America, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Gift Giving, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M, nine out of ten dentists agree: tooth rotting, yeah you read that right in the middle of july and everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaekyu/pseuds/jaekyu
Summary: and I know that you hate the nights without me —Mark spends Christmas in New York City, tries to tell his boyfriend he loves him, sees snow for the first time, and realizes his boyfriend might love him in return. Not necessarily in that order.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Series: the boys of summer [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803700
Comments: 20
Kudos: 77





	you're the one that brings the sun

**Author's Note:**

> i really named this series THE BOYS OF SUMMER and then posted a fic for it set in december (nvm that it's currently JULY IRL). i just really wanted to write something especially fluffy for the lumark i birthed in skate au. <3 
> 
> title from [i dare you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOgQpjARYyc) by the regrettes but i mostly listened to [daydream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=maK_2Tv6xRs) by the aces while i wrote this. i've updated the playlist for this au and both of these songs are now on it hehe 
> 
> as always, thank you alex for reading this over ♡

**I.**  
Mark’s phone is ringing.

Mark was sleeping, something solid and warm pressed against his side, but now his phone is ringing. He fumbles for his phone somewhere on the floor, his eyes still closed because his eyelids still feel so heavy. The ringer continues to pierce through the silence of the early morning consistently, piercing through the sleep-fog of Mark’s brain as well.

“Hello?” He snuffles into the phone, once his fingers have found purchase in their grip around it and he presses it against his ear. 

It’s his mom. “Honey bee,” she coos, “you were supposed to call me when you got in last night.”

Mark finally finds the strength and wakefulness to open his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “Oh. Oops. Sorry, Mom,” he rubs the heel of his hand against his eye, waiting for the world to come into proper focus. “My flight got in late and then I was just super tired.” 

“It’s okay,” she soothes him. Her voice comes crackly and distorted through the receiver. Mark’s not sure what time it is right now, just that it feels _early_ , but in California it would be even earlier. “I’m just checking in. Your flight was okay? You’re with Xuxi?”

Now, Mark looks down, focuses on the warm presence at his side, and finds that it is Yukhei against his shoulder. Mark is almost surprised to see him, almost like he forgot he would be there, or he had mistaken him for something Mark had half-dreamt. Yukhei isn’t wearing a shirt, his hair is a mess and the way he’s pressed his face into the curve of Mark’s shoulder smooshes up his cheek and mouth. He’s still asleep, despite how loud Mark’s phone must have been. Mark thinks he might be drooling. But the arm he has thrown over Mark’s waist, hand splayed against Mark’s lower stomach, is so nice, such a simple comfort, that Mark can’t find it in himself to care.

“Yeah, Mom,” Mark responds. Yukhei sighs loudly in his sleep, burrows closer. “My flight was okay. Just long. I’m with Xuxi. I think I need to buy a warmer jacket today.”

“Do you need me to send you some money?”

“Do not send me any money, Mom,” Mark warns. “I will decline the transfer.”

“I just want to make sure you’re taken care of! I’m your mom!”

Mark shakes his head. “Thank you, Mom, really — but I have money. Don’t worry.”

“Okay,” she relents, not quite sounding convinced. “Tell me about what you’re gonna be doing today?”

Mark falls back into slumber after the call with his mom, too comfortable between the warmth of the sun as it streams through the bedroom window and the warmth of Yukhei’s frame enveloping him to ignore the siren song of sleep. His flight the previous night was long, and it had been delayed and gotten in late, and when Mark found Yukhei waiting for him in Arrivals — a moment that felt so distinctly plucked from a Hollywood romcom it was almost embarrassing — Mark could do nothing but collapse into Yukhei’s arms and try not to immediately fall asleep.

“I overestimated my ability to sleep on a plane, Yukhei,” Mark had said, face pressed into his shoulder, eyes closed and voiced half-slurred with exhaustion. Yukhei had cupped the back of his neck and said _let’s get you home_ in a voice so gentle that Mark wanted to melt into a puddle, thinking about how Yukhei had used the word _home_. 

Mark couldn’t argue with him. It did feel like this could be it; that this could be his home. 

Mark did end up falling asleep on the way to Yukhei’s apartment, and then when Yukhei gently shook him awake to go inside, Mark had kept apologizing. _I’m sorry I’m so tired_ , he kept repeating, over and over, between rubbing at his bleary eyes and sporadic yawns. Yukhei replied _it’s okay, baby, don’t worry, you’re gonna be here for a whole week_ , over and over again in return. Mark had still felt guilty. 

It was okay, though; Mark had changed into his pajamas and slipped into the warm blankets of Yukhei’s bed and then Yukhei had slipped in after him, and Mark fell asleep with Yukhei next to him for the first time since August. It had felt the same as it did back then and, really, it was the same. They had done it so often in Mark’s bedroom in California, a few times before anything happened between them, and then much more after. In California, Mark kept his window open and they’d end up kicking the blankets off halfway through the night. In New York City, the wind shakes the glass of Yukhei’s window, a ghost that never rests, and Mark burrows further into the blankets to escape the cold. 

Mark had been too far gone into the clutches of sleep to appreciate properly last night, but now —

Now Mark relishes in it. 

When Mark finds consciousness again he knows it’s been a few hours. The sun has shifted shadows across the wall, coming through Yukhei’s east facing window. There’s an odd taste in Mark’s mouth, sort of metallic. He considers, briefly, brushing his teeth. But it’s too nice in the bed like this for him to consider leaving it yet.

Yukhei has shifted in his sleep and now instead of pressing into Mark’s shoulder, his face lays across from Mark’s on the pillows. He’s on his stomach, arm still around Mark, only now it’s settled higher up on his chest instead of across his waist. Sleep takes away all the lines from Yukhei’s face, everything that worries him and mars his face with frowns is forgotten, leaving behind nothing but softness. Mark spends a moment considering everything about him, letting it fill him up and fill all the little cracks and holes he’s felt throbbing on occasion in absence of Yukhei. 

Yukhei’s apartment is medium-sized. It’s a studio — bigger than the one Jaehyun has back in California — with one east and one north facing window. The walls are cream-coloured, almost white but not quite. They are mostly bare, save for the big, white-board calendar hung over Yukhei’s desk. Mark can just barely make out what he thinks is his name, on the date he arrived, surrounded by hastily drawn hearts and messy smiley faces. 

Mark had half-expected for Yukhei’s apartment to feel cramped, from the way it was described to him, but it doesn’t. Yukhei’s desk sits against the wall across from his bed, which has a modest end table beside it. Tucked into the far left corner is a small, deliberately sectioned off area that is the kitchen, where the flooring goes from blonde-coloured hardwood to grey-green tiles. The bathroom is along the way down the hallway that leads to the front door. It’s decently clean too; a few stray dishes litter the kitchen counter, a laundry basket overflows in the corner. Mark’s own clothes lie in a messy heap over his hastily opened and messily rifled through suitcase. 

Beside him Yukhei lets out a half-snore, and it hits Mark all at once: he’s in New York City, a place he’s never been before, that he’d never assumed he’d go to, with his boyfriend, who he hasn’t seen, or touched, or smelled, or done _anything_ tangible with in months. He sort of can’t believe it. Maybe he’ll pinch himself later, just to make sure.

For now, he scoots himself closer to Yukhei. Their noses almost brush and Yukhei’s arm reaches all the way across Mark’s chest, laying this close together, his fingers coming to grip around Mark’s bicep. Mark kisses Yukhei’s nose — once, twice, thrice. Yukhei rumples it in his sleep, his hand coming to swat at something that isn’t there. Mark watches him, trying to keep himself from laughing out loud. He does it again. Eventually, he’s peppering kisses all over Yukhei’s face, tender and light. Yukhei opens his eyes, a confused look on his face that immediately breaks away when his brain catches up with what's happening.

“Oh. You’re really here. I thought I dreamt you up.”

Mark’s heart just might burst. 

**II.**  
The plans were tentative in September but by October they were finalized. Mark wasn’t sure they would be — could be, even — until Yukhei had told him, “I think I’ll be alone for Christmas this year.”

“What? Mark had asked, sitting up straight in bed. They were on Facetime, like they were every other night, even if all they could manage was five minutes. “You’re not going home?”

Yukhei had shook his head. “We — I don’t have the money to swing it right now,” he explained, “plus, my internship just offered me a paid position so — I don’t know about leaving the city, right after that, y’know?”

The conversation had continued after that, in a different direction, but Mark kept on ruminating on what Yukhei had just told him. He was going to be alone for the holidays? Mark had thought about going to visit in December, that was the imaginary date they had set. It was for whenever things started to get dour, being so far apart, that they needed a light on the horizon to be a balm for their loneliness. They hadn’t made any real plans for it yet, though. Mark’s thoughts continued: Johnny and Taeyong were spending Christmas in San Francisco and Yuta and Ten would both be out of the country. The rest of his friends, he wasn’t sure, but they had all had pretty stagnant plans every other year, Mark couldn’t imagine this year would be any different. 

Christmas, for Mark, was always just him and his mom, and that was nice, but it was never very serious for either of them. Maybe it would be a little bit sad, if he wasn’t with her, but the idea that Yukhei would be alone, all by himself, in NYC, over Christmas? That felt a little bit sadder.

“Hey,” Mark interrupted just before they were about to say goodnight. “What if I came to see you for Christmas?”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Mark’s mom says when he brings it up to her. “You are so sweet and thoughtful, honey bee.”

Mark had been worried to have this conversation with his mother. He wasn’t sure how she’d react to him asking to spend Christmas on the opposite coast from her. The two of them; they’ve always only ever had each other. It has invariably worked for them, and Mark wouldn’t trade it for the world, but it makes prying himself away from her that much harder for Mark. She had soothes him immediately, reassuring him that though the Christmases they spent together were special to her, they were never that much of a staple for their family.

“I’ve had so many Christmases with you,” she explains, “every single one since you were a baby. I think I can make it one without you. And this is special, too — you, going to see him — and I think you should do it. You have to Facetime me on Christmas, though, the both of you! And we’ll have to eat a big meal to celebrate, you and me, before you leave.”

Two weeks after this conversation, after he’s talked it through with Yukhei, Mark wakes one morning and comes into the kitchen. He finds a manila envelope sitting on the counter. _Merry early Christmas, honey bee_ , it says on the front in black pen and when Mark opens it, he finds two plane tickets: one to fly out to New York, and one to get back.

**III.**  
They go get coffee and then they go buy Mark a new jacket.

(They had spent forty-five minutes, before both of those things, lying in the mess of sheets on Yukhei’s bed and kissing. Yukhei couldn’t stop repeating _you’re here, you’re here, you’re here_ between kisses and, every time, Mark would echo back, _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here_.)

Yukhei picks Mark’s coat out for him. It reaches below his knees and it’s all puffy, standard black in colour. The hood is trimmed in faux-fur and, on the inside, it is plush and soft. Mark’s a little embarrassed by how much more heavy-duty his coat seems in comparison to Yukhei’s. But it makes sense. Yukhei has already told Mark he wants to take him places like Central Park, Times Square, the Statue of Liberty. All places that are very much outside, very much in New York City, very much in late December. Very much a new experience for Mark’s delicate California sensibilities, as Yukhei would put it.

“Have you ever seen snow?” Yukhei asks, after they’ve bought Mark’s coat and are walking down the street, hands interlocked and stuffed into Mark’s jacket pocket to keep toasty.

Mark shakes his head. “I haven’t even — like, ever been outside of California. Ever.”

“And you came all the way here just for me,” Yukhei waxes poetically, squeezing Mark’s hand. “That’s so romantic, Mark, oh my god. Remind me to kiss you for it later.”

Yukhei directs them to this corner-of-the-street, tucked away Vietnamese place not far from his apartment. They order Pho that comes in huge bowls and is hot enough to heat Mark back up from the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes. It’s his first real meal in New York City — he doesn’t count the toast Yukhei made him this morning, no matter how lovingly he slathered peanut butter on it from corner to corner, and he also doesn’t count the Starbucks wrap he demolished for lunch — and it’s delicious.

Yukhei asks about everyone back home. “Johnny and Taeyong are spending Christmas with Taeyong’s parents in SF,” Mark explains. “Yuta’s in Japan with his family. I’m sure you know Ten’s in Thailand.”

Yukhei nods. “We got dinner before he left,” he says, “he seemed good. Did you know Jaehyun was down here last month? I don’t think I was supposed to know that, but Ten sort of slipped up, so I’m not sure if anyone else knew either.”

Mark furrows his brow. No, he doesn’t think he knew that. He thinks he remembers Jaehyun leaving for a few days back in November, and maybe Jaehyun had mentioned coming to this side of the country, but he has family in New Jersey, so maybe Mark had just assumed.

“Huh,” Mark shrugs, slurping up noodles.

“Yeah,” Yukhei eches, “huh, indeed.”

It’s dark outside when they leave the restaurant. Yukhei tugs on Mark’s elbow and asks, “you wanna go to Times Square?”

The energy in Times Square is frenetic; all that electricity, all those lights, all of the people. Mark can’t imagine living somewhere where this is always just happening, down the street from you, or something. Mark’s breath comes out in visible puffs as he stares, slightly open-mouthed at the display of it all.

“This place is kind of crazy,” he finally says.

Yukhei laughs, and when he does he bumps his forehead against Mark’s shoulder. “It’s cool, though, right?”

Mark blindly follows the line of Yukhei’s arm with his palm until he reaches Yukhei’s hand, open and waiting, and threads their fingers together. Both of them are cold. Mark doesn’t mind. He especially doesn’t mind when Yukhei presses his cold lips to Mark’s cheek, then the corner of his mouth, then on Mark’s lips proper.

Mark feels like he could stare out at Times Square for hours and still find new things to look at it, stuff he didn’t notice before. How embarrassing that he’d rather just look at Yukhei instead, the way the LED lights catch in his eyelashes, reflect themselves across his cheekbones, make him all fuzzy at the edges where they project brightly behind him.

Mark sighs into Yukhei’s mouth and kisses him back, surrounded by buzzing neon signs and lights that seemingly never go out.

**IV.**  
The next morning, Yukhei rolls on top of Mark and kisses his forehead, then clambers off the bed the rest of the way to start getting ready for work. 

“I should only be gone for a few hours,” Yukhei says, “just a few things I told my boss I’d take care of.”

Mark hums, half-asleep and spread-eagle on the bed now that the space is all his. He watches Yukhei flit about his apartment through half-lidded eyes — tugging on clothes, brushing his teeth, shoving a handful of cereal straight out of the box and into his mouth — from the comfort of the still warm sheets. The cozy feeling in Mark’s chest is still there this morning, the same way it’s been since he landed from California and straight into Yukhei’s embrace. Like someone’s stuffed in with cotton, or wrapped his heart in dryer-fresh sheets.

He’s drunk with happiness on this whole thing. On being with Yukhei. He thinks a week might not even be long enough to get used to it, to wake up knowing that it’s real.

Yukhei shoves a final few pieces of paper into his messenger bag, then sits on the edge of the bed, close enough to Mark so that he can run his hand through Mark’s hair. “And when I get back, I’ll take all the money I made just for you and buy you some of those red bean buns I told you are my favourite. Sweets for my sweetie.”

Yukhei presses his lips to Mark’s brow, hand still in his hair, and Mark preens under the attention. He stretches, half to get the blood flowing and wake up his muscles, and half so he can lean up to lay a quick kiss of his own to Yukhei’s mouth.

“Okay,” Mark hums, “don’t make me wait too long, Xuxi.”

Mark finds it hard to move from the bed, even after Yukhei leaves. He lounges, doing his best impression of a starfish, his face pressed into Yukhei’s pillows, still able to smell him against them.

When a full bladder finally pulls Mark from his makeshift cocoon of Yukhei-scented blankets, he meanders around Yukhei’s apartment in his pajamas. He cleans the couple of dishes in Yukhei’s sink. He folds the clothes in Yukhei’s clean laundry basket, spreads out his own clothes across the floor, an organized mess, to make things easier for him to grab. He digs his arm as deep into his suitcase as it’ll go, finds the shape of a rectangle covered in wrapping paper that he just had to reassure himself was there. He leaves it in its hiding place. He sits in Yukhei’s bed and eats a bowl of cereal; it’s his favourite, and Mark wonders idly if Yukhei bought it on purpose, because he remembered, or if he simply acquired a taste for it from all the days he spent eating breakfast at Mark’s house over the summer. Either option makes Mark feel equally as fuzzy.

The sun is warm where it comes through Yukhei’s window, casting a box of light onto the floor. Mark gazes outside of it, half expecting snow — but no, still nothing. New York City is still just concrete jungle; grey sidewalk and dark asphalt, no powdered white anywhere to be seen. Yukhei insists it snowed mid-November, but it all melted before Mark could even get here. Which doesn’t seem very fair.

After a few hours, Mark starts to feel a little bored. He scrolls through Instagram on his phone. Yesterday, Yukhei posted a photo of him — smiling at him over his giant bowl of soup, cheeks still pink from the cold and ears sticking out from his beanie. The caption starts with the honey pot emoji, then the bee emoji. It continues: _brought the sun with him to NYC for me_.

Mark takes a screencap and sends it to his mom. She responds with every pink heart emoji and _my lovely boys!_ with more exclamation points than Mark could count.

Here’s the thing:

Mark is twenty years old and he’s pretty sure he’s in love. 

It scares him a little bit. It’s not a feeling Mark is familiar with — he’s never been in love before, so he doesn’t quite know what it’s like. Only in theory, not in practice. Or, maybe, in practice now. Mark can only infer from evidence given, from the peaks and valleys in his gut. It scares him because it’s big, it’s important and it’s very, very special. It scares him because, right now, Mark keeps Yukhei within touching distance. But it can’t last. Not yet. Mark has to go home. And he’s worried, so worried, that maybe he’s misinterpreted his own feelings. Maybe his brain is clouded by proximity, by the soft press of Yukhei’s mouth against his, the way Yukhei will warm Mark’s hands in his own. 

But it’s not scary because — because it’s Yukhei. That’s been Mark’s answer to so many things since before this even began: because he’s Yukhei, and that’s the only way to say nothing and everything all at once. It’s the person who fills Mark’s heart with the beating wings of butterflies, who sinks himself into Mark and Mark’s life until he is an innate part of both, woven amongst the fabric of it with care and precision. Who buys Mark all of his favourite things, over and over, just to know if Mark might like them too. Who tangles his feet with Mark’s at night, even if all they’re doing is laying next to each other on their phones. Who makes Mark feel good, and worthy, and like maybe, just maybe, he might be loved in return.

It’s not scary because Mark thinks, he’s ninety-nine percent sure, that even on the other side of the country, he still loves Yukhei. That he loves Yukhei anywhere, everywhere, and all the time.

Mark must doze off at some point because his next conscious thought is registering fingers gently massaging his scalp. He opens his eyes slow, letting wakefulness flow back into like a leisurely wave.

Yukhei is lying next to Mark on the bed, his coat still on. The way he’s leaned over means his upper body is hovering above Mark, by a dozen inches or so, balanced on an elbow, and his hand moves through Mark’s hair. 

“Hey baby,” he whispers, his smile a beautiful brilliance in the half-dark of early evening. “Sorry that took a little longer than I wanted. Once I got in there — you know what? Nevermind. I don’t wanna talk about it. I wanna give my boyfriend a smooch.”

He does. Yukhei tastes sweet, like sugar and honey. Mark lets Yukhei kiss him for as long as he likes. “I can’t believe how much I slept today,” he says when Yukhei finally pulls away. Yukhei’s hand slides from Mark’s hair to caress along the shell of his ear. “Flying really fucked me up, I guess.”

Yukhei hums. He thumbs the edge of Mark’s jaw. Mark still feels tired, like his muscles are made of melted butter, or like his bone marrow is warmed milk. Yukhei is such a solid warmth beside him. Mark feels like he could fall asleep for a hundred years and just have wonderful dream after wonderful dream.

“Hey,” Yukhei snaps Mark out of his reverie. “Red bean buns. Bakery in Koreatown. You’re not allowed to go home until you have one.”

“Okay,” Mark replies. “Consider this, instead: I never try one and then I’m never allowed to go back home.” 

“Don’t tempt me, Mark Lee.”

**V.**  
They go to the Museum of Modern Art. “I think you might really like it,” Yukhei says, smiling so bright it warms Mark’s heart in his chest. Of course it does. What else is new? 

Mark does end up liking the MoMA. For all the ways Yukhei insists Mark’s geeky little spray paintings make him some sort of artist (a sentiment Mark, himself, does not put much stock into), Mark has never been classically trained. He doesn’t recognize a lot of the names attached to the art. He doesn’t really _get_ much of it either. But that doesn’t mean he can’t like looking at all of it. All the colours, all the different styles, the way rooms that showcase a particular kind of art will flow into another room that shows you something different. Yukhei holds Mark’s hand and never complains about how many times Mark wants to stop and read every little nameplate and description. He takes pictures of Mark, backdrops some pieces of famous art, and sends them to Mark’s mom. 

“You have my mom’s number?” Mark asks. 

“Of course,” Yukhei replies. He’s frowning at his phone, fingers moving fast as he types. “I gave it to her before I left this summer.”

Mark will never get over that. How Yukhei and his mom are seemingly _friends_ , united in their quest to make Mark’s life a little better, a little easier. How Mark’s mom calls Yukhei _Xuxi_ , the special name Yukhei’s own mother calls him, that he carefully offered to Mark, then offered to Mark’s mom as well. How when Mark sent her Yukhei’s Instagram post she said _my lovely boys_ , plural. Because they were, the both of them, hers. Just in different ways.

Yukhei is the first person Mark’s ever seriously dated and definitely the only person who Mark’s ever been romantically interested in to get so close with Mark’s mom. But it’s not that, it’s not that he’s the first, it’s that he’s Yukhei ( _Because it’s Yukhei_ , Mark’s answer to every question he could possibly be asked), and that he has a unique charm, specific to him, and Mark’s mom responded to it as well as Mark did. 

After the MoMA, after Yukhei has texted Mark’s mom all the pictures he took and after he bought Mark a Yayoi Kusama keychain, they go to Rockefeller Center to see the Christmas tree. It is unlike anything Mark has ever seen — huge and bright, like most of the things in New York City seem to be. Yukhei included.

“This city wouldn’t know subtlety if someone put the definition of it on a fifty-foot neon sign,” Mark says, staring up at the tree.

The weather’s gone extra cold since the sun disappeared. Mark shivers in his big puffy coat, clutching a hand warmer between both of his hands. Yukhei looks mostly unphased by the weather, letting his cheeks and nose go pink without much care. Yukhei insists it’ll probably snow soon. Finally. Maybe. He keeps tugging Mark’s hat back down over his ears every time Mark pushes it up without thinking, forgetting it’s less of a fashion statement, here, and more of a practical accessory. 

“God, this was such a bad idea,” Yukhei exclaims, overdramatic. “I’ve trapped my boyfriend in a frozen hell hole when he’s never even seen weather below thirty degrees. You’re gonna freeze to death. Get pneumonia and die. Oh my god.”

Mark laughs, and then laughs harder when Yukhei takes his gloved hands and rubs them back and forth across Mark’s pinked-cheeks. Then Yukhei kisses him, still clutching his face. It’s light and playful at first, Mark’s mouth all pouty from Yukhei squishing his cheeks together, but eventually Yukhei relaxes his hold, and the kisses becomes softer, more charged with emotion, something that makes Mark’s heart stop and start and stop and start again.

He’s been trying not to think about but, for the first time, Mark allows himself the slight sadness of reality; of knowing this isn’t something that he gets to hold forever, and soon he and Yukhei will be apart again. If he could, Mark would keep Yukhei in the moment between the start and stop of his heart, the split second stutter. He’d keep him there forever, caged in the heat and tenderness of Mark’s most important organ. Mark could press his hand to his chest, in the world where he could do this, and he’d feel the warmth not just from his own humming blood but from Yukhei as well, reminding Mark to breathe a little easier. Because somebody loves him.

Because — because Yukhei must love him, right? He’s never said it. But maybe he doesn’t have to. It has to be obvious, right? In the way he curls himself around Mark in his sleep, head pillowed on his shoulder, or hand clutched into Mark’s sleep shirt, like he’s afraid he might leave. In the way he watched Mark’s reaction, the other day, when Mark bit into the red bean bun Yukhei had bought him, the way the most sunlit-smile broke open on Yukhei’s face when Mark hummed his approval. In the way he kisses Mark now, enveloped in the red and yellow-hued lights of a Christmas tree, a moment that feels wholly warm and tender. The way his hand is gentle against Mark’s cheekbone, thumb running back and forth across it, and how the other moves to clutch at the shoulder of Mark’s coat. Like Yukhei thinks Mark will spontaneously turn into some kind of mist that floats away from him. That would have to be the way it would happen — Mark wouldn’t, couldn’t, let go of his own volition, not yet, not until he absolutely has too — it would have to be some act of God.

Mark is twenty years old, he’s pretty sure he’s in love and he thinks he might be loved in return.

**VI.**  
Mark waits for the right moment to say it.

He has the resolve to do it, he knows he does. He won’t make the same mistake. Won’t let the words continue to evade him until they slip out of his grasp and hurt him, the way a knife might tear open skin when it slides from your grip. He’s going to say it. He’s going to tell Yukhei he loves him and it will be wonderful and perfect, because Mark will make sure it is. 

So he waits. 

He thinks about doing it when Yukhei takes him on a personal tour of the NYU campus. Mark considers doing it after Yukhei shows him the library, after he points out where he took his first class, ever. After he tells stories about professors, long nights spent trying to finish CompSci projects, of the first time he met Ten, and where their friendship grew from there. Mark’s considering it, really, but then it slips away while he listens carefully to every story Yukhei wants to share, desperate for memories to hold close to him when he leaves. 

He thinks about doing it again when they go to the top of the Empire State Building. That’s romantic, right? The whole city sprawled out around them, hued with greens and red and golds and silvers for Christmas. But when they get to the top, there’s so many people, Mark gets nervous and he fumbles again.

The pattern continues: they go out for dinner and Mark almost says it but their waiter shows up. They take a walk to the Christmas market and Mark wants to find some pretty lights to kiss Yukhei silly underneath, and then whisper it to him, like a secret he wants everyone to know, but then the weather gets too cold. They’re in Yukhei’s bed, and they’ve been kissing for what feels like hours, and Mark could just say it. No pressure. Easy. But then he gets distracted by Yukhei’s tongue, and Yukhei’s hands on his hips, and then he overthinks and convinces himself that telling his boyfriend he loves him after they’ve spent so much time making out is not special at all.

So Mark waits, and waits, and hopes that when the perfect moment comes, he’ll be able to feel it. 

**VII.**  
On Christmas, it finally snows.

It snows a lot, actually. Mark wonders if every time he and Yukhei mentioned it over and over, sometimes as jokes, sometimes seriously, that all of that somehow compounded and came back to bite them in the ass. Because it starts snowing, and then it doesn’t stop.

Mark wakes on Christmas and when he looks out of Yukhei’s bedroom window it is entirely whited out, like someone’s hung a bed sheet over it. There is frost in the corners of the window, fracturing the ability to look through it properly. Mark blinks at it a few times, then an odd sort of childlike excitement turns over in his gut, and then he’s poking at Yukhei’s sternum.

“Yukhei, Yukhei, Yukhei,” he repeats, then switches to, “Xuxi, Xuxi, Xuxi.”

Yukhei sniffles, doesn’t open his eyes, and replies, “what is it, honey bee?”

“It’s snowing,” Mark whispers. He presses a short kiss on Yukhei’s chin, itchy with stubble, and says again, “I think it’s snowing.”

Yukhei’s eyes flash open and, without a word, the two of them are scrambling out of bed and to the window. They’re both only wearing boxers and Mark has a purpling bruise just below the sharp line of his collarbone. On the floor by the bed, they both narrowly avoid knocking over half-empty, chilled mugs of previously hot chocolate.

New York City — at least the part of it they can see from Yukhei’s apartment window — is blanketed in snow. It’s brighter than Mark had imagined it might be. When the sunlight hits it a certain way it glitters. It reminds Mark of the ocean back home, almost, and he supposes in some ways they are the same things, just in different states. He imagines a world where the clouds filled with condensation from the snow in New York City might somehow find their way to Mark in California, and one day rain made from the snow Yukhei will have stepped across might fall over Mark.

“Told you it would snow,” Yukhei smiles at Mark, nudging Mark’s shoulder with his own.

Mark leans over and kisses him, a little frenzied, catching Yukhei off-guard. Mark isn’t sure what else to do. Happiness bubbles in his chest, a pot on a stove threatening to boil over. He thinks about Yukhei against the backdrop of Venice Beach and how much those memories mean to Mark, and he hopes he can give Yukhei a few memories like that in his own city. Mark reflected in neon signs, Mark the only thing Yukhei wants to look at in a museum full of art, Mark’s cold hand in his own, trying to find warmth. 

They forget about the snow for a while after that. It’s hard to think about anything else after Mark pushes Yukhei back down against the bed, kissing him for as long as he can hold his breath, and then just a little bit longer.

_The weather is bad_ , Yukhei explains, a little disappointed, _but not too bad_. They should stay inside, though, and wait and see if things calm down. Mark insists he doesn’t mind and then proves it by kissing Yukhei until his pout goes pliant against the press of Mark’s mouth.

They don’t do much. They lay in the silence of Yukhei’s room, Mark’s head pillowed on Yukhei’s stomach, playing with each other’s fingers and speaking in hushed tones for a while. Mark can’t stop distracting Yukhei from telling stories by leaning over to kiss him. He can’t help it. Every time Mark looks at Yukhei he’s reminded about how happy he is, and every time he thinks about how happy he is all he wants to do is kiss Yukhei. 

Eventually, they Facetime Mark’s mom, because Mark promised.

She’s so excited when she picks up Mark thinks he might cry, so he hides his face in Yukhei’s shoulder and lets him do most of the talking at first. She’s baking, she tells him. She’ll send him a care package with some cookies, made especially for him. _Does he need anything else? It’s Christmas, after all, he can ask_. Yukhei declines politely and insists he has everything he needs and the way he says it makes Mark feel like he might be included in that list of needs Yukhei must have in his head, and it makes Mark blush. It makes his heart feel too big for the confines of his rib cage.

Mark is eventually wrangled by his mom to speak to her properly. She talks his ear off. She wants to know every little thing they’ve done, down to the most minute detail, and Mark recounts everything dutifully. She asks a million and one questions and Mark provides a million and one answers. 

“I can’t believe I’m even here half the time, Mom,” he tells her.

She smiles, her eyes watery. “That makes me so happy, honey bee. It makes me so happy that you’re happy.”

Mark cries, just a little bit, after he gets off Facetime with his mom. Yukhei is the best boyfriend ever, because he doesn’t say anything once the tears start free flowing from Mark’s eyes. Just gathers Mark up in his arms and lets him get snot all over his t-shirt. 

Again, Mark thinks that maybe now is the time to do it. But, no, Yukhei probably doesn’t want that kind of confession coming from a Mark with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose. 

Once Mark is calmed down, Yukhei gestures with his head to the window. “It’s not snowing as bad anymore,” he says, “you wanna go to Central Park?”

Before they leave, bundled up in their jackets and hats, Mark slips his gift-wrapped rectangle with a little sticker that he’s written _For Yukhei_ on into his recently discovered inner pocket. Okay, it’s a present. A present for Yukhei. He’s pretty sure he sees Yukhei hide something into his own pocket too.

Central Park is empty. The snow is so fresh it is undisturbed by any footprints. The snow feels different under Mark’s feet than he expected; it sticks to the bottom of his shoes and it makes this very specific noise when Mark steps against it that he can’t really describe. 

Yukhei dusts the snow off a bench they find, framed by two large trees. Their branches bow beneath the weight of the snow they’ve caught amongst them. They sit, and the bench is freezing, but Mark ignores it. He’s too focused on the mounds of snow around him. He gathers some up in his hands and lets it cool his skin until it turns red, and the snow itself starts to melt away between his fingers. He’s not sure how he expected snow to feel; maybe like cotton balls, or those spools of big fluffy thread, but not like this. This feels heavier, more slippery and much more wet. 

“I feel kind of silly for how much I’m enjoying this,” Mark says. He sticks his hand in his pocket to warm it up, using his feet to roll some snow into a little ball. 

“Nah,” Yukhei shakes his head. He scoots closer to Mark on the bench, sharing heat between the press of their legs. “I think it’s cute. You’re so cute.”

Mark uses an index finger to draw a smiling face into untouched snow. Yukhei does the same, only he spells out _Y + M_. Mark blushes. At least it warms his face more. 

“Hey,” Yukhei shifts so his knee bumps against Mark’s, so he’s slightly turned and can see Mark better. “Can I give you a present?”

“If I say no, what are you gonna do then?” 

Yukhei frowns. “Walk all the way back to my apartment with it stuffed under my arm weird, probably cry in the bathroom for a little bit about it. Hide it so you never find it.”

Mark laughs. “Well, I guess I should say yes then. Sure, Yukhei, you can give me a present.”

Sure enough, Yukhei opens his jacket and fishes a mound of wrapping paper out from under his arm. It doesn’t have much of a shape, which is probably why the wrapping is so haphazard and funny looking. Mark opens it carefully anyway, aware of Yukhei’s eyes on him.

Inside is a pair of mittens, delicately placed in the centre of a wound up scarf. They’re made of fuzzy red wool and despite the cold, they feel warm in Mark’s hands when he picks them up.

“I didn’t, like, make them or anything,” Yukhei says, and he almost seems shy. Mark stuffs the wrapping paper into his pocket to get rid of it, winds the scarf around his neck. “But when I saw them I thought of you, I guess. Kind of,” Yukhei continues, watching Mark pull on each glove. “And obviously, they’ll be handy. Once you — y’know, once you live here too.” 

The mittens turn Mark’s hands into something that looks more like paws, and he uses one of his new paws to pull Yukhei toward him by his jacket and kiss him. “I love them, Yukhei,” Mark tells him, their noses still close enough to rub together. “Very warm.” 

“Good,” Yukhei smiles. 

It’s started snowing again. Not as much as it was before, no — now is it soft, small snowflakes falling around them like a slow dance, meeting the ground silently. “My turn,” Mark digs into his jacket for Yukhei’s gift. His is much more angular, an obvious shape. 

Yukhei takes it carefully. When he opens and sees what’s inside, Mark can hear his breath catch for a split second. “Wow,” Yukhei breathes. “Wow, Mark.”

It’s a photo in a simple frame. A photo Johnny took of them, right before Yukhei left. The backdrop is the beach, the sun so bright against them and their skin it almost radiates out of the picture itself. Yukhei looks like he’s laughing — and he probably was, he laughs at everything, always the positive force in a room — with his head bowed towards Mark and his eyes closed. He has an arm around Mark’s shoulders. There’s the edge of a hickey peeking out from Yukhei’s open button-down, so hidden you’d only notice it if you knew it was there. Mark, at Yukhei’s side, is smiling. And he’s looking at Yukhei, and the way he’s looking at Yukhei it’s like he might be the only person in the world Mark thinks is worth knowing. 

“I forgot we took this.”

“It was my mom’s idea,” Mark confesses, biting his lip. “She liked the picture a lot. She said she thought you might — you might like to have it, to keep with you. I made a copy for myself too. It’s on my bedside table in my room.”

Yukhei doesn’t respond to that with words. He leans forward so he and Mark can kiss again. The picture collects snowflakes on its surface where it sits in Yukhei’s lap, but they all melt quickly. It feels perfect. Which means —

“I have another present,” Mark says, tentative and quiet. 

“What is it?”

“I love you.”

For a moment, Yukhei’s only reaction is to blink a few times. Mark holds his breath, worried he read this all wrong, that this wasn’t the perfect moment he thought it was — but then Yukhei is smiling again, wider than before, bright and warm and glorious and Mark thinks, reaffirms to himself, _yeah, I love you_. He’s been waiting for the right moment to say it. He’s been thinking about it too much. In the end, it turns out: the right time to say it is when it’s the most truthful, and it has never been more true for Mark then this exact moment.

“Oh, Mark,” Yukhei sighs. He captures Mark’s mouth in a long, drawn out kiss, tender and precious. Mark considers, for the first time, the way anywhere could be home. It just depends on who’s with you. 

When Yukhei finally pulls away, Mark can’t believe it but he also kind of can, because he had hoped so hard it almost hurt, Yukhei says, “I love you too.”

**VIII.**  
They Facetime the night before Mark’s flight.

“I can’t believe you’re gonna be here tomorrow,” Yukhei mumbles into his pillow, half-asleep. It’s late for Mark and even later for him. “I’m so excited. I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too.”

“It’s gonna be cold,” Yukhei continues. He gets kind of rambly when he hits a certain threshold of sleepiness. “We’ll have to get you a big coat. You’ll look like a big marshmallow. You’re sweet just like one, too. I wanna take you places like Central Park and Times Square, y’know? There’s a big Christmas tree too! I have to work a little bit while you’re here but we’ll make time for everything. Whatever you wanna do, honey bee, baby. I’m so happy you’re coming.”

They talk a little longer, both of them brimming with anticipation but honestly very tired. They lull into silence, at some point. Mark clicks through a couple things on his laptop. They do this a lot; stay on Facetime with each other until one of them falls asleep. It’s usually Yukhei, since he’s a few hours ahead, but sometimes it’s Mark. Usually after a long shift at work.

“Mark?” Yukhei calls for him quietly. Mark hums in response, turning back to his phone propped up against his lap. “I really am so, so happy. Like, I still kind of can’t believe you’re doing this for me. I’m — I’m really thankful that you would do something like this for me.”

God, Mark thinks (and this is the first time the thought seriously crosses his mind), he probably loves Yukhei, doesn’t he? Maybe that’s sort of crazy. They’ve only been dating for four months. But there was two months before that, right? Two months of build-up, of feelings, of moments snatched and kept close to the chest. Those mean something. Maybe it’s kind of dumb because they haven’t been in the same place at the same time since August. But they talk every night, and it may not be what Mark would ask for if he could wish for anything, but it’s something. Asking about Yukhei’s day and Mark telling him about his own day in return is something. It means something. There’s other things too: Mark’s mom treats Yukhei like someone she’s adopted, into her house and into her family, and all of Mark’s friends like Yukhei too. Despite the hurt and sadness they caused each other, once, the balm of being together has soothed every single lingering pain. Yukhei makes Mark feel good, and warm, and special in ways he’d never thought he could. And maybe that’s crazy, or dumb, or weird, but feelings are rarely ever any of those things.

When will Mark have another chance to tell his boyfriend he loves him, in person? It could be months. Mark doesn’t want to wait months.

“Of course I’d do this for you,” Mark replies and finishes the sentence in his head — resolves to finish it out loud, in person, directed solely at Yukhei, when he’s with him — _because I love you_.

**Author's Note:**

> the next fic in this series will probably be the jaeten and it will be. very sad. so don't expect the fluffy fics in this au to continue :/ sorry
> 
> [fic twitter](https://twitter.com/bIoodbuzzed) / [personal twitter](https://twitter.com/sieepwellbeast) / [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/bloodbuzzed)


End file.
